


Lessons and Lamentations

by Lady of Prompts (Aethelflaed)



Series: BINGO [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Ancient Rome, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Humanity (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Not Oblivious (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Humanity (Good Omens), Cuddles, First Kiss, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Music, Post-Scene: Rome 41 AD (Good Omens), Prompt Fic, Scene: Rome 41 AD (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:05:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27000154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Lady%20of%20Prompts
Summary: 41 ADCrowley has been alone for so long, he doesn't remember any other way to be.And then an angel in a tavern tries to tempt him.A lesson in music, and what it means to not be alone.--Written for the Kisses-Bingo event
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: BINGO [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017241
Comments: 14
Kudos: 104
Collections: Kisses Bingo





	Lessons and Lamentations

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the Kisses-Bingo event, prompt "Learning Guitar or Piano together" (I asked, and lyre is an acceptable substitute), which on my card is paired with "Over-the-Shoulder Kiss."

Crowley still wasn’t sure what had happened.

“Start by placing your hands like this,” Aziraphale instructed him. “The lyre goes against your thigh, here.” The curve of the tortoiseshell pressed into Crowley’s leg, partway between knee and waist. The angel’s arms wrapped around him, lightly holding the instrument. “Go on. I can’t show you how to play if you don’t take it.”

Five hours ago, he’d been sitting in a tavern, looking forward to getting comfortably black-out drunk and sleeping off the rest of his assignment. Five hours ago, he’d been just about ready to write off the entire ridiculous planet and all the useless beings who inhabited it. Five hours ago, he’d been alone, as he’d always been alone, for so long he couldn’t remember a different way to be.

And then an  _ angel _ had tried to  _ tempt him. _

“Good. Now, when you actually play, you’ll have both hands on the strings. One behind, one in front. But for now, just keep it tilted just like this, so you can see what I’m doing.” One soft hand stayed on the back of Crowley’s helping him cradle the instrument. The other, the right, brushed across his skin as fingers reached to pluck a few notes.

It wasn’t that Crowley had  _ wanted _ dinner. He ate, when he wanted, but not  _ oysters. _ If he was going to put something in his mouth, it wouldn’t be a slab of barely-cooked meat that smelt of salt and had the consistency of a particularly phlegmy cough.

But, bless it, that angel was so  _ determined _ to be friendly and how could anyone  _ resist _ that? Crowley’s  _ specialty _ was the irresistible. He knew when something was a lost cause.

“Now the  _ simplest  _ method is plucking, like this, and you’ll notice if I press down here,” his left hand shifted to rest on the strings, “the note is – is sort of abbreviated. Muted and quick. But if I leave the string free…” A soft note reverberated through the atrium. “Then it holds for quite some time. So you can combine several of those to make a chord, like this.” He plucked three strings rapidly, and their sounds combined into a single, rich note, warm, almost liquid, flowing together into something even better.

It had taken some time to warm up to each other. They disagreed on everything. Politics. Morality. Whether or not Caesar had deserved to be stabbed  _ quite _ so many times. All the big questions, really.

But then, Aziraphale had taken a mouthful of the sharp red wine and spat it back out.  _ This is no sort of wine! My dear fellow, how can you stand it? _

_ S’Rome. You drink what they have. Not any worse than that beer in Uruk. _

_ It absolutely is! My word, how your standards have fallen. _

“Now once you have that down, you can start strumming – and you have to make sure your fingers are exact, or it won't work. H old down all these strings from the back, here and here and here…like that. Then, instead of plucking, you just run your thumb across them all like this—” Seven notes all rose through the air, one sound that was everything together, pure and clear. Crowley gasped and, without thinking, leaned back a little against Aziraphale’s chest. “Mind your legs,” was all the angel said, shifting his knees and feet to hold Crowley’s legs in position.

The argument about wine had turned into a long digression about the drinks of a hundred different cultures. They agreed the pear wine to the north had been the lightest, smoothest of all, that Egyptian beer was superior to Sumerian but really the whole concept needed work, that the plum liqueur drink of the far east was simply delightful, though they disagreed on whether or not it should be drunk by the jarful.

From there they moved on to the decoration of the jars – the simple patterns of the northern cultures compared to the elaborate (and often  _ erotic)  _ scenes of the Greeks. And then to art generally, to paintings, to sculpture, to the general agreement that the emperors’ enormous monuments were rather on the gaudy side. After some discussion, they determined the best work in the city to be a simple but beautifully carved statue of the goddess Hygieia stepping from a pool, located by one of the city’s many baths. Crowley particularly liked that she carried a snake, and Aziraphale had laughed at that.

“Do you want me to play a song for you? So you can see how it goes?” Crowley nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “Alright, let me think.” Aziraphale leaned closer, resting his chin on Crowley’s shoulder, arms absently tugging at his waist to pull them more firmly together, before returning his hands to rest on the backs of Crowley’s. Now every part of Crowley pressed against a part of Aziraphale. It should have felt like an intrusion – Crowley hated to be touched, hated other people in his space – but somehow it felt the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve got one. Now watch.” He rested his left hand against the back of the strings, and with his right lifted a wedge of tortoiseshell, which he used to pluck one string after another, a slow and stately rhythm.

Speaking of art had brought them to talking about the theater, which they both confessed to enjoy. They’d discussed whether the current plays could ever be as good as the classics – a difficult conversation, as apparently the angel preferred slow-paced  _ bore fests _ whereas Crowley liked the ones with good jokes and fast dialogue. Eventually Aziraphale conceded that Plautus was one of the best playwrights in recent memory, and Crowley agreed to go see Seneca’s take on the Agamemnon story.

_ Are all angels so obsessed with tragedy? _ The restaurant had brought a bowl of figs, which were much more to Crowley’s liking.  _ Makes sense, I suppose. Predestination and the plans of the gods and all that. Humans learning to accept their fate. _

_ Oh. _ Aziraphale’s face had fallen.  _ No I…I rather think I’m the only one. _ He’d shifted uncomfortably.  _ That is…theater isn’t considered a particularly  _ angelic _ pursuit. Nor is sculpture, or food or…well…really any of the, you know, human arts. _

Crowley had cocked his head, rolled over to lie flat on his couch and stare at the ceiling.  _ Makes sense,  _ he had started in his usual cool, detached manner.  _ They’re very  _ demonic  _ pursuits. All those, you know, delicately carved ladies, that just inspires lust and…and envy and all sorts of sins. And the theater! Comedies about sowing confusion and throwing the entire world into disorder. Mocking power structures. Tempting young men into lives of romance and – and fun, instead of duty and war and whatever else? Yes, very demonic. _

He had grinned to himself, satisfied with his explanation, until a glance at Aziraphale’s face had made his chest ache. The brilliant smile had vanished completely, leaving the angel looking downcast. Hopeless. And alone, so blasted alone, in a way that resonated deep in Crowley’s soul.

So, thankful for the glasses that hid his eyes, Crowley had sighed with as much drama as he could muster.  _ Least, that’s what I tell my superiors. Don’t think they really buy it, but I keep trying. _ Aziraphale blinked at him in confusion.  _ Don’t think I’ve ever had a chance to, you know, talk about it  _ properly,  _ not with anyone who understands. So. S’nice.  _ A look of understanding dawned on the angel’s face, with an entirely new kind of smile, and Crowley had to turn away before it burned him alive.  _ Yeah. So. That’s theater…nh…what do you think of music? _

Which brought them here, to the villa of the family Aziraphale had been assigned to, and the lyre, and a music lesson that so far had been an education in something very different.

Each note fell like rainwater, gliding up and down the scales. His hands began to move independently, sometimes plucking notes from the front and back of the instrument, sometimes gliding across the strings, sometimes one finger would rest on a single string, making it quaver and reverberate. Every time Crowley thought he knew the pattern, it would change, faster or slower, higher or lower, a sweeping glissando to bring a chill up his spine.

It was a lament, infinitely sad and alone, and yet filling the air with a bright rhythm of undeniable, unremitting hope.

Crowley couldn’t keep up with the movements of Aziraphale’s fingers, dancing up and down in an incomprehensible pattern. Instead, he half-closed his eyes and leaned back, resting his head more comfortably against the angel’s shoulder. Aziraphale said nothing, intent on his music, but he tilted his head so that their cheeks rested together.

Nobody  _ liked _ Crowley, not really.

They tolerated him, or were impressed by him, or flattered by his compliments, or drawn in by his intrigue – all the tricks of a tempter. He could roll into any city or village in the world and have the locals eating out of his hand in a matter of days. But once he’d done his job, once he’d accomplished his goal and could drop the pretenses…nobody ever stuck around, and it was on to the next job, the next temptation, the next act.

He didn’t miss the company. He didn’t  _ need _ it. He had passed four thousand years on this planet quite happily alone, and could do the next four thousand the same.

And yet.

And yet here he sat, on the floor of a fancy villa,  _ surrounded _ by Aziraphale, wrapped in his arms and his legs and his music. Welcomed. Accepted.  _ Wanted. _

Just for the length of a song, nothing else needed to exist. No Heaven, no Hell, no sides, just two beings enjoying each other’s company, just the smell of Aziraphale’s perfume and the brush of his toga against Crowley’s arms, just two heartbeats dancing to the sound of the lyre.

The song wound to a close.

Crowley tipped his head back, trying to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, but could only see a round cheek, a pursed mouth, a snub of a nose.

He wished the song could go on forever. He wished…something. He didn’t know what, but he wanted it more than anything.

Aziraphale plucked the final notes.

And, as the last chord reverberated through the room, their lips met.

Quick as an echo, just as soft and mysterious. An unmistakable brush of lips, the slightest parting, a hot stream of breath. A greeting. A thank you. A promise of…something, someday, Crowley couldn’t imagine what, but he would gladly wait ten thousand years to find out.

And then – the last note faded, and Aziraphale pulled away.

“Well. There you have it. Quite a tidy little instrument, isn’t it? Quite – quite clever, I really prefer it to the cithara, you know.”

“Yeah, um.” Crowley turned his face away. He didn’t actually remember starting the kiss, but it must have been him, the eternal tempter, always pushing for whatever he could get. Pushing too far. Already, he could feel the tension building in Aziraphale’s stomach.

“Perhaps that’s enough for one night?” Crowley’s heart fell. “Yes, I – I rather think…yes, probably sufficient…”

“Can you—” Crowley gripped the instrument a little tighter. “Can you show me a few notes? While you’re here. While I’m here,” he corrected.

“I…you still want to learn?”

“S’why I came, isn’t it?” He shifted his hands and tried to pluck a note; it came out more sour than sweet. “Something like this?”

“Nearly.” Aziraphale’s fingers came around to nudge his, but they hesitated. “Perhaps I should, er, sit facing you? That might be less…”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley said, far too quickly. “I mean. S’easier this way. Facing it the same way, hands on the same side, all that. You don’t…you don’t  _ have _ to move.”

“Ah. If. If you’re sure.” Crowley nodded. “Right then. Ehm. When you pluck, you should pinch your fingers like this…”

The lesson went on until the early hours of the morning, Crowley nestled against Aziraphale, as the warmth and the music filled him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> So for those who don't know the deleted scenes, this fic was inspired by the fact that, according to the script book, Aziraphale was in Rome to "influence a boy named Nero" and had decided to help him develop an interest in music. And also that at the time of that scene, Nero was *at most* three years old. Kept getting the mental image of Aziraphale, sitting with baby Nero in his lap, guiding his fingers along the lyre.
> 
> Originally, this fic was going to be Aziraphale's POV, with him offering to teach Crowley how to play, unthinkingly pulling the demon into his lap the same way he did his young student, and being rather embarrassed at how much more *intimate* it felt. In the end, Crowley's POV worked better, though we do miss out on Aziraphale's motivation for thinking this would be a good idea.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this fic - please leave a comment if you did!  
> \--  
> History notes:  
> * A lyre is an instrument popular in ancient Greece and Rome, related to a harp and often made from a tortoiseshell. It was generally played by pressing some strings with one hand while strumming with the other, holding a plectrum (pick) similar to a guitar or a zither, though it could also be plucked like a harp. I was not able to find any 2000-year-old videos of actual ancient Romans playing the lyre, so I based the description partially on modern lyre-player videos and partially on zither videos (which I'm a little addicted to).  
> * For once, I used the term "tavern" instead of "popina" for the place that Aziraphale and Crowley met that day. But you're still getting your Latin education! One of these days I'll write a fic that really gets into what Roman restaurants were - and weren't - like, but that's not today! In the interest of maintaining the mood rather than strict historical accuracy, Petronius's restaurant is a nice place with food served on a table and couches for the guests to recline on while eating, as one would see at a dinner party.  
> * Ancient Roman red wine was not the good stuff, usually very vinegary and mixed with warm sea water; the white wines drunk by the upper classes would be aromatic, flavored with honey and herbs - and probably still too acidic for modern tastes. But highly alcoholic, so at least there was that. I can't even imagine what the "house brown" Crowley drank in the previous scene would be, but it was probably only borderline drinkable.  
> * Beer at this point was still mostly liquid bread - very caloric, very strong, probably not much in agreement with our angel's refined palate.  
> * The plum liqueur they reference is Umeshu, added after a conversation with Elf-on-the-Shelf about favorite alcohols.  
> * Hygieia was the goddess of hygiene and health, daughter of Asclepius, god of medicine. She was often depicted carrying a large snake. This statue is not based on any one in Rome in particular, but loosely inspired by a rather nice one I saw in a museum once (actually from Antioch).  
> * Plautus was perhaps the most celebrated comedy playwright in ancient Rome; Sondheim made a musical based on elements from Plautus's plays, so you know Aziraphale must have enjoyed them. Seneca was a Stoic philosopher and orator who was disliked by Caligula, exiled by Claudius, and eventually brought back to Rome as a tutor to Nero. While we don't have any dates for his plays, in all honesty his "Agamemnon" probably wasn't written until about a decade after this fic takes place, but as it retold an ancient story from a largely female perspective, I couldn't help thinking it was Crowley's sort of play, and bent the rules a little.  
> * Cithara: a heavy lyre, the one Nero allegedly played while Rome burned.  
> * For an idea of what first century lyre music might sound like, I listened to this song, ["Nero's Lyre" by Michael Levy,](https://ancientlyre.com/single/11940/nero-s-lyre) who all joking aside has a truly astounding collection of lyre music in the ancient styles.


End file.
